Brothers and Lovers
by element78
Summary: AU, slash- Sam sets Cas up on a blind date with someone who isn't Dean, and Dean is perfectly cool with it. Really.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: A friend of mine recently got stuck in a hospital for a while, and her only highlights of the day where when I would print out fics and bring them to her. Then she started requesting fic from me. The request for this one was a bit… iffy, for me. Suffice to say I edged outside of my comfort zone here, and into uncharted waters for me, and with any luck I didn't completely screw it up.

This is a pretend-multi-chapter fic. It was all one long thing when I wrote it, but I chopped it into pieces before posting this _because_ _I'm evil_. Also, I'm still in the processing of doing last-stage cleanup. There will be more Cas 'n Dean in chapter two, I promise.

I do love feedback, so if you have a favorite line, quote it and I will has a happy!

* * *

><p>Most bad things that happen in the world, as far as Sam is concerned, start with some well-meaning but misguided soul deciding to help out someone in need, often without the knowledge of that someone. This is rapidly turning out to be somewhat similar to one of those times, except for the well-meaning part, and the whole misguided thing. And, of course, the use of the word soul is highly debatable.<p>

Gabriel does these sorts of things for his own entertainment, knowing full well that it most likely won't end well. And, Sam believes, some bizarre ripple in the fabric of reality at the time of Gabriel's birth allowed him to slip into the world without getting saddled by that pesky little soul thing. What he _was_ born with is a salesman's false charm, and the ability to see right through people, and a hangdog expression that is nothing like Sam's own puppy-dog eyes and instead puts one in mind of a mournful old basset hound.

The amazing thing is not Gabriel's determination- when he gets his teeth in a plan, it's hell shaking him loose. The amazing thing is that Sam is listening to him, even considering his idea, if for no other reason than to make him go away that much sooner. He tried _you ranting lunatic, get out of my life_ once, before realizing Gabriel lives in Reverse Psychology Land, and now couldn't get the older man to leave him alone without use of a large box addressed to some small town in Brazil and a tranq gun with a big enough dose to drop a moose.

"Let me see if I've got this right," he says. "You want us to hook up our brothers."

"Yes," Gabriel says in a loud and slow tone typically reserved for particularly dense children, American tourists in foreign countries, and puppies being taught not to piddle on the rug. "You said yourself you're tired of the whole Dean and the Bimbo of the Week routine, and I'm tired of the whole Cas the Involuntary Celibate thing. Two birds, one stone."

There are three chairs in Sam's office. One day, he chooses to believe, one day Gabriel will slip up and sit down in the one with wheels, and Sam will roll him right out the door. And, quite possibly, right down the stairs.

"Does Cas even like guys?" Sam asks. Might as well start poking holes in Gabriel's plan now- Sam hardly knows where to start, since it's already composed almost entirely of holes- before they go ahead with it anyways. The only thing that bothers Sam about Gabriel more than the man himself is how easily he gets Sam to cooperate in his idiotic schemes.

"I don't know," Gabriel replies, looking as though he has no idea why such a thing should matter. "I haven't exactly asked."

"Well now," Sam drawls. "I hate to be a killjoy-"

"Don't see what difference it makes either," Gabriel rolls right over him. "Ever since the first day, Cas has carried a torch for Dean that you can see from Mars. So even if he's not into guys, there is one exception."

"And you can't just… tell them?" Sam asks, a bit desperate. Of course not. That would be no fun.

"I think that if things were going to develop naturally, they'd have been going at it like bunnies for years now," the shorter man says dryly. "Quite possibly from the moment they met. I was there, remember. I could practically hear the blood rushing south." Sam holds up a hand, putting the conversation on hold for a moment while he mentally purges that image.

"And in order to push them together," he says, "you want me to set Cas up with other people?"

"Yes."

Sam considers this for several long minutes. He nods once, after he has turned this gem of a plan over in his mind and studied all the flaws.

"You're an idiot."

"And you're petty and condescending, but I wasn't going to say anything."

Sam would rather swallow his own tongue than admit it, but it is nice to occasionally have an argument with someone who doesn't sound like they're borrowing their riposte from a third grader's repertoire of insults and witticisms.

"So you're trying to make Dean jealous," he says.

"Well, it can't be Cas, it would take months for him to figure it out and years for him to do anything about it. Dean is a little more leap-before-you-look. Also, if I'm completely misreading the situation-" and here he scoffs a little, like such a thing is patently impossible, "-and the whole UST is one-sided, then Cas gets a few dates out of the deal and no harm no foul."

"Did you honestly just say UST?" Sam asks incredulously.

"And it's got to be you because Cas knows better than to go anywhere near anything to do with me. Plus he has this morbid fear of making you cry again, so no matter how crappy the dates are he'll keep at it if you ask him."

The problem with childhood friends, Sam decides, is that they're _childhood friends_. They've been around a while. They know all the really embarrassing stories. Like the one where, upon their first meeting, thirteen-year-old Cas had managed to make a barely-nine-year-old Sam cry. Sam hasn't managed to live it down, made all the more frustrating by the fact that Cas somehow has.

But that was twenty years ago. Sam has grown up.

"What do I get out of it?"

"Bug the crap out of Dean for however long," Gabriel says instantly, naturally going for that which appeals most to him. "And if all goes well, your brother's sex life will include not having to remember which name to yell out this time. And my brother's sex life will include actual sex."

"If I agree, will you leave?"

"Bearing in mind that wasn't actually an agreement, just an offer of one, yes."

Pain in the ass. "Fine. I agree. Now please," and he gestures towards the door. Gabriel is almost gone, one foot in the hallway, when he pauses and turns back.

"Last thing," he says. "Kinda important. Let Cas be the one to tell Dean you're setting him up with people."

"Gabriel-" Sam begins warningly, but by the time he reaches the third syllable, he's talking to thin air.

* * *

><p>The following Friday morning, Dean wakes up half-naked on the couch in Cas' living room. This would be of far greater interest if it weren't for the fact that it has happened every Friday morning for going on three years now.<p>

By this point, Cas has been gone off to work for well over an hour now. Dean had stayed over the previous night, as he has every Thursday night, because he'd drank more beer than Cas was comfortable with and he wouldn't let Dean drive himself home and _no way in hell_ is Dean letting Mr. Totaled Two Cars in Four Years touch his precious Impala. So, as compromise, Dean gets the couch- like there's any competition for it- and Cas tries not to wake him up as he gets ready for work the next morning.

It's harmless and innocent and- to a certain brother- completely frustrating, in the pull-your-hair-out-and-scream sort of way because my God are those idiots _blind? _What planet do they live on?

The interesting thing is what happened the evening before.

* * *

><p>Thursday nights as pizza-and-beer night- minus the beer part, back at the beginning- started way back in tenth grade, when Dean realized that he would need serious help if he wanted to pass his math class. Since it seemed unfair to burden Sam with his woes- which, roughly translated, means Sam had just entered middle school and was appalled at the level of homework they were giving him and wouldn't take the time out of his busy busy schedule to help Dean without a flat nightly rate of twenty bucks- Dean went instead to the other neighborhood brainiac. Cas wasn't necessarily any happier about it than Sam, but by virtue of not being related to Dean, he was considerably politer about it.<p>

And then one night Dean picked up a pizza before coming over, and thus stumbled upon the secret to taming the grumbly snappy beast that is Castiel.

Long gone are the days when Dean needed Cas to help him with his homework. These days, or so Dean tells himself, this is just to make sure Cas has something vaguely resembling a social life, pitiful though it may be. And if it feels like an escape to Dean, a weekly breath of fresh air before diving back beneath the surface, well, that's his problem.

This week is different, though, with Cas feeling a bit off-step all evening, culminating in his frowning intensely at the TV screen as they watch the video of Super Bowl 38 Dean recorded. Dean watches him, a bit worried- hey, he likes football as much as the next guy, but Cas is staring at it as if it contains all the keys to unlocking the secrets of the universe, if he can only discern them from the meaningless background chatter.

"Cas, dude, relax," he says finally, when he's starting to get twitchy himself from Cas' obvious tension. "It's just a football game, all right? There is such a thing as overthinking it."

With an almost audible ripping sound, Cas tears his attention away from the TV and looks over at Dean. Someone may as well have drawn a great big question mark on his forehead, his confusion is that obvious.

"Have you spoken to Sam recently?" he asks plaintively, and Dean suddenly realizes that Cas wasn't watching the game, probably wasn't even seeing anything. Eyes following the lights and movement, like a cat, while lost in his own thoughts.

"Nope. Why?" And Dean takes a sip of beer. In retrospect, he should have known better.

"I think he's trying to set me up on a blind date," Cas says, and Dean inhales beer. The next few minutes are fairly active, what with Cas trying to stop Dean spilling beer everywhere and Dean trying not to die.

Once the excitement has passed, and Dean is breathing again, he asks, "What makes you say that?" Because Cas- and Dean says this with nothing less than the greatest affection- has the social skills of a tree stump. It's easy for him to misread things.

"He told me he was," Cas says, and Dean has to admit, it's kinda hard to misread that. He stares mournfully at the puddle of beer soaking into the carpet and shakes the bottle in his hand. He considers getting another one, then decides it can wait to the end of this conversation. Something tells him the potential spit-takes are still coming.

"Did he say why?" Dean asks next.

"No." And Cas didn't ask, because he isn't hardwired that way.

Dean looks back at the TV. Commercials are running- because what's the point of recording a Super Bowl without them. This is the year, he remembers, of Janet Jackson's legendary 'wardrobe malfunction', and halftime is coming up. He scrambles for the remote and pauses the game. Then he realizes what he just did, implying that this conversation is taking the fore in terms of priorities, when right now he just wants it to go away. He unpauses it, fast-forwards through the commercials and a good three minutes or so of the game before Cas gently takes the remote away and pushes play.

"How long's it been?" Dean asks, as they're skipping through the halftime show, a little bit later. "Since you went out on a real date, I mean."

Cas doesn't immediately answer. His eyes go a bit out of focus, like he's adding up the numbers in his head. Which, really, is an answer in itself. Dean knows better than to comment on it. Having a new date- and he uses the term loosely, most times- every week is about as emotionally healthy, but Cas' approach includes less humiliating doctor's appointments.

"If you, you know, need advice…" he begins, shuffling his feet until he realizes what he's doing and forces himself to stop and pointedly not looking at Cas.

"Ask Sam," Cas finishes grimly, and when Dean starts to protest, he says simply, "Homecoming, senior year."

Dean grins a little at the memories.

"Yeah, all right, I don't really give good advice," he admits.

Cas spends most of the third quarter looking at Dean, long subtle little stares, as if trying to see beneath his skin. It's unnerving, but Dean is used to it, and manages to ignore it while he watches the game and cheers for whichever team he feels like, as if he has any affect whatsoever on the outcome.

Thus was Thursday night.

* * *

><p>The following morning, Dean calls in sick- easy enough to do when you're your own boss- and, after a considerable amount of deliberation, heads out to Sam's office. He hears the kid before he sees him, talking to someone around the corner in the hallway just off the elevator. Arguing, really.<p>

"Sam!" he barks, lengthening his stride.

It would occur to someone else, or even Dean at some other time, that there was something somewhat unusual about the scenario he was presented with when he came around the corner. Sam is standing alone, apparently addressing the wall. A door close to the spot Sam had chosen to have his half a conversation is slowly drifting shut. But all Dean can see, locked on as he is like a guided missile, is his brother.

"You know," Sam says conversationally to no one in particular, "when I started working here, they said something about building security, so random people can't just come strolling in."

"Feeling violated, Sam?" the almost-shut door asks softly. Sam glares at it.

"Hey," Dean says as he comes up to his brother, trying to restrain himself. He has nothing to be angry about, he tells himself. Sam is Cas' friend too, even if they were never as close as Cas and Dean, and they're all adults and nobody needs idiot big brother running interference in a situation he doesn't entirely have a handle on.

"Hello, Dean," he says in a false friendly tone. "Did you need something?"

Dean balks for a moment, eying his brother warily. The tone is concerning. Still, this is for Cas, so he pushes ahead.

"Yeah. Cas said something last night, about you setting him up on a blind date?"

"It's just a casual thing," Sam says, shaking his head. "Cas seems a little…"

"What?" Dean says, almost snaps, suddenly defensive. "Cas seems a little what?"

Sam, for his part, is well aware that no one is truly in control of this conversation. He doubts Dean even fully understands why he's here.

"Lonely," he replies flatly. A challenge. "He needs to get out more, make some new friends. Anna is a nice girl-"

"A nice girl? Who are you, her grandmother?" Dean scoffs.

The door snickers. Sam glares again.

"Who are _you_? Cas' keeper?" he shoots back, refocusing on his brother.

"Look, just-" Dean shakes his head, moves away a bit and paces a step or two. Then he turns back to Sam. "Cas is freaking out about it. You know how he gets, all wide-eyed and crap? He's afraid he's gonna, I don't know, upset her and disappoint you or something."

If anyone says anything about Cas making Sam cry, there will be blood spilled right here and now.

"It'll be fine," Sam assures him. "Just a friendly dinner and- why am I explaining myself to you?"

"Yeah," Dean says, as if any of this has made sense and somehow told him everything he needs to know.

"And now you're leaving," Sam says flatly as Dean turns and heads away.

"Yup. Thanks, Sammy."

"You couldn't have just called? You had to do this in person? Here? Of course you did," he says, muttering the last part to himself, as the elevator dings.

"Oh yeah," the door says. Sam shifts around to face it. He can see, through the crack it has been left open, a sliver of Gabriel's triumphant grin. "He's Mister Cool. Completely unconcerned. Not overreacting at all."

"He's a good friend," Sam says, feeling stupid even as he says it. Gabriel doesn't bother to respond, which is just as well because Sam can hear him smirking.

He's surrounded by crazy people, he thinks in despair, and the crazy is catching.

"Still quitting on me?" Gabriel asks cheerfully after a few moments.

"Fine," he snaps, grabbing the door and swinging it open so he can look the older man properly in the face. "_Fine_. I will help you with your little scheme, but after that, leave. Me. Alone."

Gabriel only smiles, like he's remembering the punch line to some great grand cosmic joke that everyone who isn't Sam Winchester is in on. It's a very condescending smile.

"Yes sah!" he barks, giving a sharp salute.

Sam slams the door shut in his face.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: The general consensus seems to be that I am, in fact, evil. Also, I appear to be ushering in the end of the world. I feel special.

This one is shorter, so sorry. But it broke up neater this way.

IHOP= International House of Pancakes. A 24/7 breakfast place. Good food relatively cheap, but not worth the insane waits you get on weekend mornings. IHOP food is always best- and this is fact- in the wee hours in the morning, after a midnight movie or a school dance or something.

* * *

><p>At seven-thirty on a Saturday morning, the rule tends to be that only those who have a very good reason, such as a job or some regrettable form of incurable insanity, are awake and moving. In Gabriel's case, it's habit- he works night shift- although most people, especially those he is related to, would say he leans more towards the insanity thing. Sam, of course, would maintain that pure evil doesn't sleep.<p>

Gabriel allows himself a snort at that. He feels very alone, sometimes, the only one standing upright with his head not buried firmly in the sand. And currently he is also feeling very bored, which is a bad thing indeed, mainly due to the lengths he will go to remedy this.

Idly, he picks up his cell phone, decides that seven-thirty is not too early to be inflicting himself upon the world, and dials his brother's number.

Forty-five minutes later, an annoyed and sleepy Dean opens the door to Cas.

"What's wrong?" Dean asks, or tries to ask. As he is by no means a morning person, and plans on going back to sleep for another two hours at least after this, he has not bothered yet to engage his brain and so what actually comes out is something more like _wuzong_.

"Gabriel called," Cas says. Dean looks at him closely for the first time that day.

"He give you one of his pep talks?" Legendary, those- it gives one the inescapable urge to go hide under a rock for the remainder of the century.

Cas nods.

"All right," Dean mutters, rubbing at his eyes in resignation. "But you're buying breakfast."

* * *

><p>It's not that Dean plans on undoing the damage- that takes days, Gabriel is just <em>that good<em>. But sometimes the nightmare approach helps, putting distance between yourself and it, simply letting jangled nerves settle down while waiting in broad daylight where nothing bad can happen. Dean has experience with this, not just with Cas but with Sam as well. When he's bored or depressed, or simply feels like it, Gabriel will declare psychological warfare on the two younger brothers. It's a spectacular thing to watch when he goes to work on Sam- nothing gets to the kid faster. The best Dean can like it to is a leaky faucet whose drips are not only incredibly loud, but also irregular.

For whatever reason, Gabriel doesn't do this to Dean. Possibly because of the highly uncomfortable observation Sam had made one time: that Dean and Gabriel had quite a bit in common, more so than with either of their brothers. That innocuous little comment had turned out to be quite the conversation-killer, with both Gabriel and Dean stopping to stare at him, and even to this day they'll glare at each other uneasily if they find themselves doing or saying something similar.

Cheapskate Cas' idea of buying breakfast is McDonald's drivethrough, which Dean complains about until Cas unbends just enough to patronizingly agree to going inside. Because he's being a smart-ass- a built-in defense against Gabriel, except that once he gets in the swing of it it takes him a while to shut it off again- and because Dean is driving, he chooses IHOP instead, and quickly learns why Cas hadn't considered that option in the first place.

"Twenty-five minutes!" he rages, storming over to Cas, who is leaning against the Impala's front fender. "Twenty-five freakin' minutes for one table!"

"At eight forty-five on a Saturday morning," Cas says, not bothering to look at Dean. "Have you ever been here in daylight before?"

Dean only comes here in the toddler hours of the day, on mornings when he has work, because there's no substitute for eight hours of sleep like a four-pound stack of pancakes and an endless supply of coffee strong enough to act as both engine oil and paint stripper. They keep the place nice and cold, too, that early in the morning, and somehow that in combination with the overbright lights can cure a hangover like nothing else.

Still, saying as much to Cas feels somehow like admitting to kicking puppies in his spare time.

"Course I have," he says breezily, settling against the car next to his friend. "But in the afternoon, not the family version of Happy Hour."

He looks at Cas, who is far closer than Dean would allow most people to get, although to be fair that's mostly Dean's fault, and Cas has never really had all that much respect for personal space anyway. The poor bastard looks like he's bracing himself for war.

"You don't have to go through with it, you know," Dean says conversationally, keeping his gaze carefully focused on anything not Cas. "Sam's a big boy. He won't cry if you tell him to butt out." He wouldn't cry, no, but he would know who was to blame, particularly if Cas indulges in such colorful terminology.

"It's tonight. I can't back out now."

Probably why it _is_ tonight, Dean thinks but doesn't say. Because Sam knows you well enough to know you'd chicken out, but not if it meant standing the girl up.

They don't talk about it after that. They don't talk about much of anything- one of the best things about Cas, Dean has long since decided, is that he has no compulsion to fill the silence with meaningless chatter. Dean half-flirts with the waitress, scoring them a better table away from the kid-infested section, and shaves ten minutes off the estimate. And Cas isn't bothered in the least when half the restaurant pauses to watch in vague horror as Dean demolishes his stack of pancakes.

There are a lot of things that can be said without ever saying a word.

* * *

><p>Cas' date with Anna- his second date today, although only his brother would see it that way- is unremarkable. There have been worse first dates in the history of man. Certainly there have been better. If Cas is boring, it's only a little bit, and he's charming in his stilted way. If he's quiet, it's because he's a good listener, and there's not a woman alive doesn't appreciate that. Anna has known Sam long enough to have second-hand accounts of his childhood escapades- in which Cas features almost always as a silent but significant anchor of sanity, keeping the two older boys from getting swept away by their own wildness, standing his ground in a way the painfully young Sam never quite dared- and knows that Cas is simply one of those people who has to be comfortable with you before he lets his personality show through.<p>

Because Sam is what people like Gabriel refer to as a spoilsport, he had explained things to Anna, figuring that someone in this mad scheme other than Gabriel should know what the hell is going on. Cas is endearingly awkward, and pleasant enough to look at when the conversation- inevitably and repeatedly- died, and Anna thinks maybe Sam doesn't quite understand who is doing whom the favor here.

Sam had also given her an accurate description of Gabriel and told her, in great detail, of the man's evil powers. She figures it says more about Sam than Gabriel, but she keeps an eye out all the same, and is almost disappointed when she doesn't get to meet the legend.

She doesn't get to meet him because Gabriel is busy elsewhere.

* * *

><p>Dean goes to work after breakfast, because it's his business and his garage so he can do what he damn well pleases, and works the clock around. The second eight thirty of the day- and that this day contains two is almost a sin as far as Dean is concerned- finds him diving ass-up like a duck into the engine of a Honda that makes a noise similar to a cat in a blender when running.<p>

"I'm disappointed in you, Dean," a voice says from the doorway. Dean jerks up and hits his head on the open hood. For a moment he gathers his patience, just breathing, and almost mindlessly checking for blood. Then he grabs a wrench and straightens up, carefully this time.

"Give me one good reason," he says, hefting the wrench. Gabriel gives him a derisive look.

"Because my brother would be obliged to never speak to you again." He takes the wrench from Dean, although it takes him a couple of tugs, and drops it back in the toolbox. Then he drops in beside Dean, leaning over the engine. "Whatcha doing?"

"Won't work on me, Gabriel," Dean says calmly, like he hadn't just threatened the man. "Save it for Sam."

Gabriel barks out a laugh, as if Dean has said something incredibly funny- and for a guy who likes to smile, he rarely laughs, even at his own jokes, which is one of his few saving graces.

"And why are you disappointed?" Dean asks, with the mix of resignation and morbid curiosity of the man who knows he won't like the answer but simply has to ask the question anyways.

"It's date night," Gabriel says, sounding almost shocked, giving Dean a disbelieving stare. "And here you are, in the garage."

"Some of us don't stalk our friends-" Dean begins.

"I do not stalk you," Gabriel scoffs. "Waste of time. You're all boring."

"-or family," Dean continues, through gritted teeth. "Cas is perfectly capable of handling himself on one date, with Sam's friend, that alone means she's basically white-bread-boring." He grabs blindly at some tool, not caring what he actually got, and focuses on the engine again. He's painfully aware of the long silence.

"Well, all right, Casanova," Gabriel drawls after a pause. "I was actually talking about you, being here alone, rather than out trolling the bars like normal. But since you mentioned it-"

Dean smothers a groan and contemplates whacking himself in the forehead with the- he steals a glance- pliers until he knocks himself out and escapes this conversation.

"I didn't mention it," he snaps.

"Nope, you didn't." Gabriel waits just a beat. "But since you didn't mention it, have you _seen_ her? If that's what counts as boring these days…"

"Get out," Dean orders, calmly at first. Then he wheels around, pliers held up threateningly-or, at least, tries to. Instead he nails his shoulder on the latch of the open hood, hard enough that it tears his shirt. Gabriel, a longtime master at wearing out his welcome, is already halfway out the door.

It takes ten minutes to get the sluggish bleeding to stop. Dean spends the time hating the world.

* * *

><p>Cas goes home alone that night, not that it matters <em>at all<em>, and Dean certainly didn't drive around the block four times in order to be in the neighborhood when Cas actually got home. And he didn't take the Honda, which still sounds like a cat being strangled, and if he did it wasn't because the Impala is too recognizable.

And he really doesn't call the next morning, mostly because he'd gone out later that night and gotten thoroughly drunk and slept until noon in the Impala's front seat while still parked at the bar. He blames it all on Gabriel, because now he's imagining a Brazilian model as Cas' date, and why that bothers him is what truly drove him to drink last night. He can't be jealous of Cas, he's Dean's friend, and deserves to be happy better than most people, including Dean himself. He wonders what, exactly, he's done that is so horrible to deserve this sort of karmic backlash, and what Cas has done to deserve him as a friend.

He's a man standing on the edge of a steep slippery slope, he can see that well enough, and people keep coming along and nudging him.

It would have saved all involved parties a lot of effort if he had bothered to look at the sign at the edge of that slope in this metaphor.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I played Bingo with a couple of transvestites at a gay bar last weekend. A very interesting way to spend a Saturday night, and very entertaining, if only because one of the other girls couldn't get over the fact that a man in neon pink spandex looked prettier than her. Also, I watched Jaws for the first time in fifteen years- and if you ever want to psychologically scar a child, letting them watch Jaws the night before a day at the beach is a very good way to go- and it is still _the best movie ever_. I dare anyone to disagree.

This monster has maybe two more chapters left. The end was the part I was least satisfied with, and so it is undergoing renovations right now.

* * *

><p>Cas doesn't call him, the day after date night- and god, he is going to <em>murder <em>Gabriel; amazing how one three-minute conversation can completely undermine one's own understanding of themselves, and naturally Gabriel knows exactly what to say to turn Dean into a jealous obsessive jerk because he is indeed pure evil, and Dean owes an apology to Sam for all the times he made fun of Sam's little freakouts because he became Gabriel's pet project at some point-

Cas doesn't call him, the day after date night, or at least Dean doesn't notice if he does. Even after he gets home, loud noises and bright lights still have the potential to crack his skull open, so he goes and curls up in bed and whimpers to himself for a while. Then, when he feels a little less like week-old roadkill, he gets ambitious and drags himself out of bed and curls up in the shower and whimpers to himself for a while, wondering the whole time what the hell he'd drunk last night. He's nobody's definition of a lightweight, and he's never gotten a hangover this bad before. By the time he's on his feet and somewhat ready to face the day, it's almost four in the afternoon.

Thus Sunday passes in an indistinct haze of pain and nausea.

* * *

><p>Monday is boring and completely unremarkable. Dean lets his cell phone battery die and tells himself that he isn't actually avoiding Cas. He takes Chinese takeout to Sam's office for lunch, because he can empathize now, and lets Sam- who watches his brother with observant eyes, and moves with the studied carelessness of someone who is eating dinner with a tiger and knows full well that one false move will end with him on the menu- take two of the fortune cookies. He doesn't make fun of Sam once even though it means leaving the conversation stilted and awkward because all they do is pick at each other in a mostly good-natured sort of way. By the time he leaves, he's fairly sure he's convinced Sam that he is either possessed or a Dean-clone.<p>

Thus Monday passes in self-imposed silence.

* * *

><p>Tuesday comes, and almost goes, before Dean finally cracks.<p>

* * *

><p>"So how was the date?" he asks, trying to pick up a discarded shirt without using his hands or bending over. Laundry day was always interesting in the Winchester home, resembling an Olympic sport more than a household chore, and Dean had carried that with him after moving out.<p>

"I don't know," Cas says, which Dean figures he should've expected. "She didn't throw her drink in my face and have her brother slash my car's tires."

"So better than Homecoming," Dean says brightly, because he's long ago gotten over his guilt on his part in that fiasco- hey, think of the stories they got out of it.

There's a moment of silence after that, and Dean recognizes the sound of Cas gearing up to ask him something, something he wouldn't ask anybody else because no one understands his peculiar brand of naivety like Dean does.

"I was thinking," he says, far too quickly, almost desperately. He falters there, but Cas waits, a different sort of silence than the one before. "You know, Sam's birthday is coming up. We should do something for it."

"In a month," Cas says, as though there were some way Dean could have forgotten. "And I'm not sure he would want us to do something." He says 'do something' like it's the verbal version of a snotty rag, holding it at arm's length and giving it a bit of a sneer. He clearly knows Dean far too well.

"Just a little party."

"You said that about the graduation party you threw him," Cas says. "And then you 'accidentally' invited those strippers, and I had to spend an hour convincing him not to kill you."

Dean hadn't known that. And it's Cas, so he knows it's not an exaggeration for effect.

"Well, thanks for that," he says, since it seems only polite to thank someone for saving your life, and doggedly continues. "But he's turning thirty, we can't just do some quiet dinner in a fancy restaurant."

"That's what we did when I turned thirty."

"Yeah, but your parents were in town, and they scare the crap out of me." Dean admits this honestly, with absolutely no shame, because it's true. Cas' parents are creepy, his mother especially.

Dean continues to hash out his plan, rolling right over Cas' occasional comments, until he drops his cell phone into the empty- and thankfully dry- washing machine. He can't quite reach it, and so he has to go get something to stand on, which is something he hasn't had to do since he was seven. By then the conversational thread is well and truly lost, and Cas has to go anyways, so Dean says goodbye, then sets about seeing how many pounds of laundry he can stuff, clown-car-style, into the machine.

Thus Tuesday passes, and ends with Dean feeling like himself once more.

* * *

><p>In hindsight, it was his own damn fault. He knows, he <em>knows<em>, better than to underestimate Cas, who sits so solidly on the so-clueless-it-hurts line that it's easy to forget that he sometimes manages to loop back around to the other extreme. Who knows Dean well enough that sometimes, when Dean least wants him to, he all but literally reads Dean's mind, like Dean's every thought is written on his face.

Thursday night, Dean shows up at Cas' place in a far better mood than he had been the previous week. He brings two pizzas this time, since he'd felt in a Hawaiian sort of mood and boring ole Cas gets this look on his face- like he's being asked to bite into a lemon- every time he's faced with something that isn't pepperoni on his pizza. He also brings the Jaws collection and roots for the shark, and tosses back three beers in quick succession, just generally content with the world and completely oblivious to Cas' growing agitation. Finally, when Roy Scheider and Richard Dreyfuss onscreen were contemplating their long swim home, Cas snatches his fourth beer right out of his hand before he can get it open and gets up, moving to the kitchen but stopping just before actually going in.

"Why does it bother you that I had a date?" he asks finally, and Dean stares at him, at the line of tension across his shoulders.

"I didn't say that," he says finally, knowing even as he said it that it's weak but he couldn't just let that sit in silence. "What makes you think that?"

Cas gives him a look, and Dean concedes the stupidity of such a question and moves on.

"It's a little weird," he says, in self-defense, because Cas ain't buying what he's selling. "My brother, setting my friend up. It's kinda…" He shrugs, looks at the credits scrolling up the TV. He'll babble just about anything if Cas keeps quiet long enough, they both know that. Dean doesn't do so well with silence.

Cas still says nothing, but sits back down and gives Dean his beer back. He's letting it die- not that he believes Dean, but he has to, because he doesn't want to follow the logical line of reasoning and arrive at the obvious conclusion which casts Dean in a very unflattering light. But it's not good enough, not for Dean, so he searches for the right words as he rolls the bottle in his hand slowly, memorizing the fine print on the edge of the label.

"It's just… It's Sam. I mean, I know he means well, but he doesn't get you, not really, and I don't want you getting hurt or something because my brother's an idiot." He starts out slow but speeds up quickly, until he rushes headlong into the last half of the sentence like an out-of-control train, until he feels like the words are red hot and burning his tongue and he just wants them out.

And Cas just stares at him, until Dean is seconds away from channeling his inner preschooler and whining _stop looking at me_. And then he smiles, a long slow quiet smile, almost shy, and looks away without saying anything.

Dean, relieved to be off the hook and apparently back in Cas' good graces, grabs the remote and skips back a bit, because nothing can dispel the threat of any lingering sentimentality quite like an exploding shark.

* * *

><p>That smile sticks with Dean that night, leaving him tossing and turning endlessly as best he can on the couch- which, truth be told, is more comfortable than his own bed- until he ends up on his feet and pacing. He stops in front of the fridge and stares at it for a long minute before finally opening it, and then just stands there, bathed in the bluish light, the wave of cold air like a knife's edge scraping over the bare skin of his stomach.<p>

Thinking about it, now, he can count on one hand the number of times he'd seen that smile. Always, every time, it's because of something Dean said or did. No one else has ever caused that smile.

He doesn't believe in the soporific properties of warm milk, so he ends up stealing a piece of Cas' pizza. He picks the pepperoni off and gnaws mindlessly on the crust, moving away from the fridge while the door is still open- the only light in the whole house- and through the living room to the hallway beyond, off of which are the bedrooms. There's a guest room but Dean's never slept in there. He's always gone with the couch.

Every Thursday night- or Friday morning, if you want to get technical- when Dean falls asleep, there's still lights on down the hallway, still the faint sounds of movement. Every Friday morning, when he gets up, Cas has been gone for over an hour. This is the first time he's been here and awake while Cas was asleep. It's an odd feeling, one he doesn't care to examine too closely.

He closes the refrigerator, throws away the remnants of the pizza slice, and spends the rest of the night laying on the couch and staring at the ceiling.

* * *

><p>Saturday afternoon greets the world with a snarly thunderstorm that knocks out the power in half the city and soaks Dean through to the bone, after the Impala's front right tire very audibly finds a nail-studded two-by-four in one of the roadside puddles and Dean ends up putting the spare on while practically underwater. Rather than try to figure out which of his favorite Saturday night hangouts have power, he just goes home.<p>

The water in the shower is warm, to chase away the chill of the rain, the needle-spray just shy of bruising force. He leans against the wall and lets the water pound out the tightness in his back, idly tallying up the days since he'd last had a date- of any meaning on the word. It's been longer than anyone would guess. Maybe he's burning out- Sam had certainly predicted that often enough, back when Dean started visiting Cas practically every day, back when Cas was in college, because his sophomore year he lived in a coed dorm which is quite possibly the best argument for higher education that Dean has ever seen.

He braces himself against the wall and wraps his fingers around his cock and starts stroking, efficient and businesslike, needing the emotional release more than the physical. He watches a bead of water trace its way down his hand, following the lines in his skin, and bites at his lower lip as he pulls from his mental file of images and closes his eyes-

And sees Cas and that damn smile, and his back arches and he comes hard.

Thirty seconds later he's out of the shower, towel wrapped loosely around his hips, staring his own reflection in the eyes.

What the _fuck _was that?

* * *

><p>Contrary to popular belief, Dean is by no means stupid. He's not even one of those who has to make some excuse about the difference between street-smart and book-smart- he's the former more than the latter, but still. His biggest obstacle in high school had been attitude, not aptitude, and he'd gotten a half-dozen letters from some fairly respectable colleges, which he had ultimately declined because he just wasn't interested. He can't calculate interest rates out in his head or recite the periodic table, but he's not some sort of idiot.<p>

The problem, the thing that makes him look like some sort of mental defect, is the company he keeps. Cas is basically a reservoir of information, able to remember every damn thing he's ever learned- Dean keeps encouraging him to go on that Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader show, because Cas actually remembers fifth grade in fine detail, whereas Dean's memory of that year most predominately feature breaking his arm by jumping off the swing set and being quasi-stalked at recess by a girl named Sally Longfield- and he knows how to make that work for him. And Sam- well, Sam is certified genius material. It's hard to look like anything more than a gibbering idiot when compared to that kid.

The point is, Dean isn't stupid. When he finally stopped to think about it, he realized fairly quickly where to pin the blame for all of this. Sunday morning, after the rain had stopped and he'd gotten a real tire on the Impala in place of the spare, he went out to catch himself an archangel.

* * *

><p>"Gabriel!"<p>

Gabriel, Dean notices, has some interesting reflexes. Rather than stop and look around, he ducks his head a little and speeds up, as if afraid something is going to be thrown at him. Dean supposes, with Gabriel's unique brand of charm and singular approach to like, such caution is necessary. He lengthens his stride and reaches the apartment complex's door just in time to shove it closed again, cutting off Gabriel's escape with seconds to spare.

"Oh good, it's you," Gabriel says, and pivots on his heel to face Dean and gives his classic shit-eating grin. "What can I do you for?"

"There isn't enough money in the world," Dean drawls, not able to help himself, and even smiles a little when Gabriel barks a laugh. "Who did you think I was?"

"Your brother," the older man says simply. "You two do sound alike when you're bellowing."

"What'd you do now?" Dean asks, most rhetorical, since he knows he'll be hearing about it one way or another.

"Nothing new," Gabriel shrugs it off. " 'Pissed' seems to be his default setting when it comes to me. I'm used to it."

"Yeah, speaking of which," Dean shifts a little, leaning against the door to keep it closed. "I finally figured out who's responsible for all this weird shit recently."

"I personally blame the Republicans," Gabriel says, straight-faced. "Or I used to. Apparently, that isn't very PC. So now I blame Martians and global warming."

Dean stares at him, as though if he's watched long enough he'll suddenly, magically, start being less crazy.

"Right," he says after a while. "Back on Earth, now. Did you tell Sam to set Cas up on a blind date?"

Despite all appearances, Gabriel also is not an idiot. He is, however, considerably more devious than Dean- more so than most people, really. He can tell in a glance that jokes and dodges are what Dean is expecting, and counters by moving to the other end of the scale.

"Yup."

"What? Why?"

Gabriel looks at the door, which Dean is still blocking, then back at the parking lot behind him, then at the cloud-choked sky. He can't scrounge up the mortally-offended face fast enough, so he settles for indignant.

"He's my brother," he says, slowly enough that Dean will hopefully understand on the first go-round. "I'm allowed to care about him."

"Yeah, you are, but you-" Dean cuts himself off before he can finish that, because Gabriel is pretty easy-going as far as these things go, but there are lines not meant to be crossed and Dean has seen what this bastard is capable of when he's well and truly mad. "You don't show concern like this," he finishes, a bit lamely, but at least he avoids any open declarations of war.

Gabriel waits, apparently seeing if Dean's going to continue painting himself into a corner. Dean abandons his current tack before he shoots himself in the foot.

"Why'd you drag Sam into this?" he demands, because is Gabriel is allowed to play the big brother card, then so is Dean.

"Because I'm the boy who cried wolf," Gabriel says. "I've spent Cas' whole life teaching him not to trust me. Everything I say, he takes to mean the opposite. Besides, Sam knows a… better class of women, you could say."

"And this isn't some secondhand attempt to screw with him?" Dean asks in disbelief. Gabriel scoffs.

"Do you really think I need _Sam's_ help to tease my kid brother?" he counters. "I don't always have underhanded motives, you know. I am capable of being a decent guy."

Dean has to give him points just for getting that out with a straight face.

"You can't tell him," Gabriel says. "He liked her, and if he hears I had anything to do with it…"

"He told you he liked her?"

"Course not," Gabriel snorts. "Like he can tell. It took him eight years to realize you were his friend, no way is he gonna know he likes her after one date." He wedges a hand between Dean and the door and pushes him away.

Dean lets out a disbelieving laugh and scrubs his hands over his face. "God. I get what you mean about you being the boy who cried wolf. I keep waiting for the punch line."

"Well, here it is," Gabriel says as he opens the door. "I got tired of waiting for Cas to handle it himself, and decided to help him out. All I want is for him to be happy." He pins Dean with a knowing look, his eyes dark and unreadable. "You're supposed to be his friend, so maybe you should be asking yourself why you _don't_ want that."

The door clicks shut and locks behind him, leaving Dean standing outside with only a score of uncomfortable questions for company.


End file.
